Mythradies Boutique

By James Scott DeLane

Welcome to the strange world of Griffin Grimesly. Come along as he shares his off-beat and colorful observations of his quirky world and the odd characters he meets. Enjoy plentiful laughs, a few twists, and occasional heart tugs.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9781597052856

Book preview

Dedication

To everyone with a quirky sense of humor.

The Agency

Ididn’t sleep a wink . From sunset to sunrise my imagination was held captive by a gripping account of Sol Invictus and his less than honest affair with a sultry sea nymph. Sol gave the beauty of the sea a high-hard-one in her enchanted cave. Those were the days. What’s the point in being God if you can’t seduce the odd sea nymph now and then? I give the ancients credit. Their gods had real gusto. Destroy cities, tell lies, take sexual advantage of mortals; those are my kind of gods. Modern deities? Who needs them? I mean, what good are they? Floating about strumming harps and waxing piety? Fuck that. If I’m God, I’m banging the hell out of every sea nymph I can get in my deified hands. I suppose there is always a slim possibility I might encounter a woman so beautiful she would freeze me in my tracks; a lady of such stunning perfection she would force me to set aside my philandering ways. Nah, no way.

I will say one thing for my absent father; he constructed one hell of a library. We had books no one else even heard of. His library stood fifty meters from the floor to the ceiling with shelves stuffed full of rare volumes and wonderful manuscripts. Lucky for me I loved to read. The library was the only room in the house with a lock. My father frequently tossed me inside and sealed the door. What can I say? I enjoyed soapy showers with the servant girls and I never heard a single one complain. If my behavior was particularly out of line, into the library I was tossed where I spent many days and nights doing nothing but reading.

So anyway, I was up all night and then I had to work on my model of the Pantheon. I don’t mean some chicken shit plastic model. I mean a genuine scale recreation of the Pantheon to the very last detail. I learned about ancient mathematics, architecture, and engineering from these models. I constructed boats, amphitheaters, the Cirrus Maximums, the great pyramids, and so on and so forth. I had a fondness for high ceilings and marble floors. My Pantheon was perfect and I almost had the last block in the roof when Mason interrupted me.

Good morning sir, he drawled in his monotone voice. Sleep well did you? Dreams keep you awake?

He offered me a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice. Mason looked exactly the same all the time; rain or shine, good or bad; he was a poster child for regularity. He must have leapt from his mother’s womb at the age of fifty-five and never aged another day. Mason was an adroit, thin man with a rather long nose and a buffed bald head. I have no idea if he simonized his cranium or if the sheen was entirely natural. His ever-searching eyes called to mind a futuristic robot forever on the prowl. Like a buzzard, he endlessly circled looking for trays and teacups to collect. He wore a black tuxedo and a pressed white shirt with sufficient starch to deflect an anti-tank round. His movements were predictable and precise. Mason straightened his spine and made an unexpected announcement.

Your aunt wants to see you, sir.

Don’t be ridiculous, I scoffed.

Although we lived on the same grounds, I hadn’t seen my Aunt in ages. She had the good sense to stay on her side of the compound and I stayed on mine. This separation was a mutually beneficial arrangement.

She will receive you in her breakfast room sir, if you don’t mind.

Mason, did one of my cousins sneak into the compound? Did one of them put you up to this?

Your cousins are forever banned from the estate sir, if memory serves.

I finally put down my glue gun and gave Mason a hard stare. He stood rigidly at attention as if expecting an order.

My Aunt wants to see me? I asked with a questioning gaze. Mason, are you serious?

When am I ever otherwise, sir?

My Aunt wanted to see me? That could only mean one thing; someone died and I had to go to the funeral. I detested funerals because the entire spectacle was such crap. Does anyone really believe deities concern themselves with mortal funeral orations? If the priest mumbles the correct words, the pearly gates open to an eternity of bliss; otherwise it’s off to hell? The guests are so mournful of the dearly departed except no one bothers to notice the dearly departed themselves don’t give damn. The person in the casket is in fact dead; as in no more, past tense, formerly alive. Shed those precious tears for people while they live, don’t wait until they are room temperature.

Your Aunt is waiting, sir.

Mason had a way of looking at me while not looking at me. His eyes averted a direct line of sight, yet still he stared at me. I tried to ignore him and work with my glue gun, but I felt his eyes creeping along my skin.

Get out of here Mason, I’m busy.

He refused to move. He stood like a dime store mannequin. I guess he was serious after all. I tossed on a pair of jeans, a fresh shirt, and walked with old Mason across the tennis courts, past the swimming pools, around the horse stables, over the polo field, and through the garages. When we entered the breakfast room, I feared for a moment my dear old Aunt had crossed the great divide. She was frozen in mid-pose pouring from her china kettle. Her cup was full and brown tea was splattered all over the floor.

Too much Sweet and Low, I observed. Finally killed the old gal.

Her face snapped to life and her little black eyes peered at me like a barn owl studying a mouse.

Griffin, you look terrible. Do you ever eat? Do you ever brush your hair? Do you ever go outside? All your color has faded away. You are white as a ghost. If you lie down, someone will pull a sheet over you.

Nice to see you too Aunt Roslyn.

Rose Ann, my Aunt yelped. More tea.

Rose Ann was more infinitely entertaining than old Mason. She was older than time and deaf as a post. She ate apples and plums all day giving her a stomach that generated rumbles even construction workers would find offensive. My Aunt would never think of firing any of the staff, let alone her beloved Rose Ann.

Rose Ann, my Aunt called again. More tea.

The old woman burst through the two way door clutching a silver tea tray in her wrinkled hands. If there was an Olympic sport for trembling fingers, Rose Ann would set a performance standard never to be surpassed. Every spoon and cup on the tray rattled as if Vesuvius was about to bury the house in ten meters of smoking ash. Not only was the old girl deaf, but her right eye had gone solid white. Like a tower with a bad foundation, she leaned a little to left as she walked. I kept thinking she would topple over and send the tea tray crashing to the floor. She found her way to my Aunt by force of habit. When she turned to leave, she blew a blast of day old apple exhaust at me. I had to check my eyelashes to see if they were still there.

Griffin, you’re a disgrace, my Aunt dryly observed while she again poured tea all over the floor.

Aunt Roslyn, your tea cup is full.

She thrust her little index finger at me. Don’t change the subject. Your cousins are gainfully employed but you never worked a day in your worthless life. You’re pathetic. What would your father say?

Actually I didn’t know much about my cousins. Some long ago family feud, of which I had but sketchy details, resulted in most of my relatives being forever banished from the compound. I did know two of my cousins had jobs. My cousin Ted, was a porn star of some renown. He frequently lauded his giant appendage and he was no braggart; I’d seen a few of his movies, if one can refer to such personal exploits as a movie. I’m glad his artistic efforts weren’t filmed in 3D; I might have lost an eye. My cousin Frank, had a job touring with a Pentecostal minister. At a key point in the sermon, old Frank was touted onto the stage and presented to the audience as an example of the deleterious effects methamphetamine had on the adolescent mind. As a child Frank hid in his closet, drooled at pictures of naked girls and whacked off until he was dehydrated. When he reached a state of exhaustion, he imbibed large doses of methamphetamine so he could keep pounding the monkey. Now he sits on a stool and drools into a tin cup. Doing God’s work, I suppose.

Griffin, you need a job, my Aunt announced with such enthusiasm she flung her teaspoon through the plate glass window. Thousands of shining shards sprinkled to the floor but she took no notice.

You need to learn about the real world, she announced while slamming her fat little hand onto the tea tray. How do expect to carry on in your father’s footsteps with no practical experience?

When she struck the tray a buttered blueberry scone adhered to her palm. She was set to make another point and raised her arm for extra dramatic effect. The pastry launched off her hand directly into the ceiling fan. The fan blade whacked that scone with the force of Babe Ruth swatting a fastball. The muffin careened off two walls and landed in the center of my Aunt’s open mouth. Without missing a beat she took a bite out of the scone like nothing had happened.

Aunt Roslyn, I don’t need a job, I protested. What entrepreneurial skill is required to mange one tenth of the world’s known coal reserves and one fifth of the world’s copper? I own twenty-five hotels, three banks, one island and a basement full of gold coins that would embarrass Solomon. A moderate IQ cumquat could mange this estate.

Don’t be coy with me, she snapped and buttered another scone.

A honey bee buzzed into the breakfast room through the broken window. The misguided apis mellifera should have stayed in the garden with the rest of its species. The unfortunate insect landed on my Aunt’s scone and quickly fell prey to her fine dental work. Her eyes widened when she swallowed the little bug.

Excellent scones this morning, she observed. You should have one. You are too thin. You look like a ghost. Do you ever eat?

Aunt Roslyn, a job? I mean really. I have three degrees in mathematics, two in history, and one in astronomy. I’m unemployable.

Hump, she said with an unimpressed grunt. "I had that so called university of yours checked out. There is no Columbine University in Manhattan. Do you take me for a fool?"

Aunt Roslyn, the name is Columbia.

Don’t mince words with me, she exclaimed with such force her reading glasses launched into her scrambled eggs. You will get a job and that’s final, she announced with the certainty of an Old Bailey judge pronouncing a death sentence.

My Aunt proceeded to eat seventeen scones without a single sip of milk; a dietary feat I had witnessed on more than one occasion. After a mild but audible burp, she leaned toward me and spoke in a whisper.

Have you seen that girl who used to play in my garden? Do you remember her name? She was a tremendous Canasta player. Very tricky with her red threes.

No, I don’t recall.

My Aunt nodded and leaned away. If you see that child, please send her my way.

With a silver fork, my Aunt poked around for her reading glasses until Mason surgically extracted them from a mound of yellow eggs and calmly reapplied them to the bridge of her nose. Mason had the cool nerves of a first-rate second story man. My Aunt removed a folded piece of paper from the pocket of her one and only sweater. She insisted I read the tattered note.

This firm offers the finest employment services for people of your unique background, she announced with a firm nod. Get over there and find a job. I can’t take care of you forever.

This address is in Queens. How do I get there?

You can fly for all I care. Get over there and find a suitable job. Be off with you. I have to prepare for my checkers match.

Find a job? Go to work? Travel among people? How horribly distasteful but what else could I do? My Aunt was the sole and absolute executor of my estate. Although my father left his entire fortune to me, my Aunt was appointed lifetime manager. I had the very real feeling my Aunt Roslyn would live forever.

Although totally unprepared, I was forced to venture into the world to find my first job. I was beset with terrifying visions of wearing a ludicrous pink uniform, serving ice cream to spoiled children who poured root beer on my socks. What meaningful task could I perform other than teach history or flip burgers? Perhaps with diligence I’d work my way to captaincy of the French fry basket. I could purloin an apple fritter from time to time. Mason prepared a tuna sandwich and a baggie full of skim milk which he carefully placed in a brown paper bag. He kindly drove me in the family limo to the train station.

Do be careful, sir, he wisely advised. There are strange people in this world.

Fortunately I’d memorized the New York transit system and I knew the shortest route. I planned to ride the train to Grand Central; hop a Queens-bound subway and walk the rest of the way.

When I arrived at the Hobs building, a hotly contested game of street baseball was in progress. A crowd lined the avenue and watched two talented young pitchers strike out one batter after another. Many of the fans verbally expressed a surprising familiarity with the sexual exploits of each batter’s mother. I wasn’t certain what the human rectal sphincter had to do with competitive sports but it was a commonly employed epitaph.

You can’t hit, asshole or You can’t pitch, asshole, were frequent utterances as were vivid illusions to the player’s preference for obscure sexual practices. I was mildly surprised how well the players knew each other to the point of naming whose sister slept with who and the particular lubricates used, which I would have assumed were details better kept private. Being unfamiliar with the nuances of baseball I failed to grasp the relevance, although the emotional energy expended when making these statements was so high I assumed fervent observations were a required part of the game.

At long last a batter struck the ball and sent the object into a high trajectory. A barehanded fielder made haste to catch the ball before it landed. Unfortunately his eyes were focused on the ball and not the oncoming beer truck. By a bizarre quirk of fate, a wayward pigeon intersected the ball in midair and both tumbled to the ground. The fleet-footed fielder nabbed the ball just short of the truck.

Nice catch, asshole, I shouted and gave him a wave.

The game evaporated and I continued about my business. The wooden door of the Hobs building opened with a squeaking sound that lead me to believe I was the first one to turn the knob in a hundred or more years. The air inside was stale and there appeared to be no elevator. According to my Aunt’s note, Stephanie’s Employment Agency for the Perpetually Confused was on the tenth floor. I ascended a dark staircase to the echoing sounds of my own footsteps. The agency door was ajar so I stepped inside. When I entered, a foul odor insulted my nose. I noticed my shoes left prints in the dust and there were no other footprints. A rather rotund woman with three yellow pencils jammed into her nest of black hair sat perched in a chair behind a wooden desk. Piles of papers were stacked on both sides of her. Like a frog seizing a fly, she snatched a page from her left side and furiously rolled it into the manual typewriter positioned in the center of the desk. She blankly stared at the page for a few seconds then quickly rolled it out of the typewriter and slammed the page atop the right hand pile. Each time she unrolled a page, she inflated a huge pink bubble from the wad of gum in her mouth. The sharp popping sound reminded me of a high powered rifle fired at close range. She repeated these meaningless tasks without noticing me.

Excuse me, I said timidly. I’m searching for employment.

Why else would you be here? she retorted in a thick Brooklyn accent. Got an appointment?

No, my Aunt—

Take a number, she said and pointed with her index finger to a mechanical device which dispensed square bits of paper. Above the device was a tiny sign which read Now Serving 666. I turned the red crank and pulled out the next bit of paper. In small print the number read: one million five hundred and thirty seven thousand forty two.

There must be some mistake, I surmised.

Take a seat with the other applicants, the mindless typist ordered. Ms. Stephanie will interview you when your number is called.

The receptionist pulled a pencil from her tangled hair and pointed to a set of four chairs on the far side of the room. Three of the chairs were occupied with rather gaunt fellows who appeared to be sleeping. When I sat down, I recoiled from a most unpleasant aroma. A trail of busy red ants ran up the leg of one of the applicants. Another fellow had a roach resting perfectly at ease on his hand.

Excuse me, I offered to the receptionist. I believe these gentlemen are deceased.

Are you a doctor? she promptly retorted.

No.

When you get your MD, be sure and let me know.

Can we at least open a window?

No, she replied with a sharp smack of her gum. It ain’t sanitary.

I sat in the uncomfortable wooden chair and wondered how long it would be before the hard seat forced my butt into tingling numbness.

Been here long? I asked one of the dead guys.

There was only one door besides the entrance. Two inches of dust were piled in front of the door and a thin cobweb trailed from the glass doorknob like drifting cigarette smoke. Long abandoned spider webs adorned the corners of the ceilings. There was a hand scribbled inscription on the baseboard of the door: If you are here, you are in serious trouble.

I noticed a faded yellow newspaper under the wilted arm of one of my fellow job seekers. If I bent my head at the correct angle I could read the date: June 13, 1913.

That’s odd, I thought.

I glanced at the cheap digital wristwatch I had